


The principle (of silver lining)

by eretria



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Episode Related, First Time, M/M, Season/Series 05
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-18
Updated: 2010-09-18
Packaged: 2017-10-11 23:58:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/118577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eretria/pseuds/eretria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"It was a beautiful thing to watch, even from afar. <br/>Meg bounced, rocking from her heels to the balls of her feet and back again. She couldn't wait for the moment Sam got it, realised just what their little Judas had done. She wondered, belatedly, if she should have given Castiel a handful of coins. But then, drama was more her father's metier."</i>  A madcap plan, a meeting, an encounter, a last supper and a desperate night before the last.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The principle (of silver lining)

**Author's Note:**

> Most heartfelt gratitude goes to Auburn and murron for beta-reading (both have gone over one scene in particular at least five times with angelic patience, for which they have my eternal admiration) and tireless hand-holding, as well as thegrrrl for helpful notes on several scenes.

I.

"Well, well, look at you," Meg dragged out the words, feeling them glide over her tongue like honey. She cocked her head, looking at the creature in front of her with amusement and not a small portion of curiosity. An occupied vessel, but without the usual glimmer of barely contained energy around it. She had already felt it back in Carthage, but it was even more pronounced now. The angel — slouched against the graffiti-covered brick wall with his arms crossed over his chest in a gesture that was more protective than assertive — was out of juice. Completely. She whistled quietly as she took in the dirty trenchcoat over washed out jeans and a wrinkled cotton t-shirt.

"Clarence, Clarence," she chided. "My father was disappointed about the way you treated me." Meg let her hand glide to her stomach, felt his gaze follow her fingers. The scar was still there, she hadn't been able to heal the meatsuit after it had been burned by the holy oil. "Something about first dates and wanting to kill you."

Castiel raised his eyes to meet hers, blue a shock under the cool halogen street light. "Are you sure that he wasn't disappointed in _you_ for letting me escape?"

It was hard to withstand the urge to flinch as his words hit far, far too close to the mark for her liking. The fallout of that day had been beyond her darkest nightmares. She still felt the scars where she'd been punished for her negligence, not just on this body but on her very essence. "Don't give yourself too much credit," she huffed instead, derision masking her rattled state. "You're not that important."

"Then why are you here?" he asked.

"Why are _you_?" she shot back. She was honestly still wondering about that. Wondering why she'd come, too, when he'd conjured her. Apart from rampant curiosity and maybe a small taste of revenge. Just a small one.

Castiel uncrossed his arms, placed his hands flat against the brick. She saw his fingertips digging into the cracks. He dropped the back of his head against the wall with a dull thud, his eyes closing, exposing the sharp jut of his chin, the Adam's apple bobbing when he swallowed several times as though readying his vocal chords for the answer to her question.

It came in one word. One low, gravelly disclosure. "Revenge."

She was torn between delighted laughter and incredulity. "Come again?"

He opened his eyes again, staring at her with no trace of the earlier weakness left. There was a fire in them, burning bright and all-encompassing and Meg had seen this before. So many delicious times, on so many souls she had dragged to hell as payment for this one emotion: Hatred.

It was better – and frighteningly worse – seeing it radiate from an angel. His soul would be a glorious one to drag to the pit, but seeing it went against everything she'd learned, against everything she'd been taught and experienced. Cosmic dissonance. She'd only ever seen one angel with the same amount of hatred in his eyes: Her father.

"What happened to you?" she asked, honest curiosity getting the better of her for a moment and making her forget the mocking. She stepped closer to him, smelling coffee and fresh sweat and the dust of the road on his skin.

"Life?" A parody of a smile crossed his features when he looked away from her to where a car was just passing outside the alley. Somewhere in the same direction, a rat scurried into the trash lying on the ground.

Meg narrowed her eyes and stepped even closer, grabbing his chin and turning him back to face her. Stubble scratched against her fingertips. This close, his breath reflected off her face as it had done in Carthage. Only this time, it not in strained puffs, but in a long, slow glide across her skin that made something in her sing of victory. "What happened?" she repeated her question in a low whisper, letting her breath deflect from his mouth, gliding her index finger over his dry lower lip. The feel of him shuddering against the touch of a demon was as addictive as Mexican hot chocolate – rich, dark and spicy. He held her gaze long enough for her to guess at the answers, but he pushed her away and turned before she could fully read him.

"You fell," she stated.

"I jumped," he corrected her.

"Semantics," she said on an amused huff. "You're out of mojo, however it happened."

Rebellious angel. Cast out. Cut off. The parallels were striking, even though she refused to think that Castiel would ever be ready to take the route her father had. Considering the unadulterated hatred in his eyes, though, she wondered if maybe he had potential. Wondered what she could do with that potential...

"I came here to offer you a deal, not talk about my state of disgrace," he said over his shoulder. "I can give you Sam Winchester."

Meg didn't even try to fight the laugh that bubbled up. "Try to fuck with someone who isn't quite as experienced in it as I am," she said.

He continued as though she'd never spoken up. "He won't come willingly, but you can possess him. Take him to Lucifer." He rolled his shoulders, tipping his head back to look at the stars above them. The coat rustled around him. "I'm sure you father will be very grateful."

She'd done it before, wondered if the angel knew about it. Meg remembered the week she'd spent riding around in Sam's skin — damn that had been a nice meatsuit. The idea was bold. She liked bold. However… "Why exactly should I trust a word you say?"

"Because you want to be the one," he said, slowly bringing his head back up and turning until he faced her. Stared at her in a way that made her feel uncomfortably naked despite the layers of clothing. "You want to be the first in line. The one daddy's prouder of than all the others."

She gave a snort, crossed her arms in front of her. "I don't have the same daddy issues you do, big boy."

He quirked a small, humourless smile. "Oh, yes, you do. Besides, you love nothing more than to corrupt a soul for hell. As long as it's not yours." He spread both arms wide, an open invitation that scared the shit out of her for reasons she couldn't put her finger on. "So, here I am. Offering you both."

"Why?"

"I told you," he said, sounding impatient.

"Yeah, revenge. Revenge for what, though? You conveniently omitted that part."

"Have you ever been ready to risk everything? To give up everything for someone—"

"If you talk about love, I'll projectile vomit."

"Everything, demon. Everything. The very essence of your being. For just one soul. Because you believed." His voice carried in the narrow confines of the alley, the words rising into the night sky by the sheer power not of how they were spoken but that they were spoken at all. "And then had that belief thrown into your face, twisted. Betrayed. Belittled. While you could do nothing but watch it happen because you didn't have the strength to fight it any longer. Because you had already given everything." He expelled the air from his lungs explosively, then whispered again: "Everything." The bitterness was like a second skin around him. "So ask me again why I want to settle the score."

***

 _Settle the score._

What a nice and innocent term for what the angel was about to do. The more Meg thought about it, the more glee she felt – and anger because the idea hadn't been her own.

She popped a few Jelly Bellies in her mouth, chewing thoughtfully to identify the flavours. It was getting dark and she was unable to get anywhere near Bobby Singer's house, thanks to his damn devil's traps. So she waited in the junkyard, propped against a rusting truck with the night's cold creeping over the South Dakota prairie and into her boots.

A demon waiting for an angel. It was all pretty damn hilarious.

Of course, like it or not, she needed Castiel for this whole thing to work. Sam wore a protective tattoo these days, it wouldn't be as easy to possess him as it had been three years ago, but once she had him alone, the rest would be a piece of cake. Sam had enough chinks in his armour to let in legions, it would be so easy to slip in the cracks and fill the empty spaces inside. Maybe she'd mess with Dean some more before taking sweet Sammy to Lucifer. Dean had killed one of her favourite hellhounds, after all.

Meg peered around the truck, her hands resting against the flaking paint on the truck when she heard boots crunching over dry sand. Too light to be Sam or Dean or Singer. She relaxed. Cocked her hip. Twined a strand of hair around her index finger while she waited for him to approach.

"I was getting lonely, Clarence," she said, giving him a full on pout. "What took you so long?"

He didn't dignify that with an answer, merely glared at her. "I've set the groundwork."

Meg let her eyebrows meet her hairline. "Care to tell me about your ingenious plan?"

"The less you know, the more authentic you'll come across later."

"You're betraying him. Them. Don't you think it would be rather unauthentic if I didn't gloat?" She let go of the strand of hair, blew against it when it came to rest on her nose: "Which, for the record, I already am. Ooooh, yes. The Winchesters, stabbed in the back by their own angel."

"I'm not—"

"Blah, blah." She raised her right hand, letting thumb, index and middle finger meet in a talking gesture. "As I said, semantics. Don't bore me, Clarence, you were just getting interesting."

She expected him to come back with some kind of retort, but he just leaned against the truck himself, rust trickling from it as his weight shifted it, the frame groaning. He bent his left knee, foot coming to rest against rim of the flat tyre. Close enough to her so he was in touching distance. Which —

"I forgot to do something last night," Meg said, turning to face him.

He didn't meet her eyes when she searched his face. "What?" The question was weary. He'd turned his head to look at the sky again, the stars a steady, cold glimmer above them. It gave her time to look at the man in front of her more closely than last night, when surprise had overshadowed everything.

"You're pretty for an angel," she said, meaning it. She'd already noticed in Carthage, when they'd been pressed together in the ring of holy oil.

"It's the vessel. You wouldn't survive beholding my true visage."

Derision. Nice. She reached up and patted his cheek, a patented look of mock-sadness on her face. "Don't have to worry about that anymore now, do I?"

Her hand was pried off his cheek so fast she didn't even have time to blink. "Keep your mocking tongue to yourself."

Meg threw her head back and laughed. Oh, but he was delicious when he got angry. She was having way too much fun here. "I know better things I could do with that tongue," she husked, breaking his grip on her hand and letting it return to him, drawing a circle on his chest. There were welts underneath the soft cotton, scars, maybe, and he hissed under his breath, then shifted away from her.

"Come on, Clarence," she sing-songed, bringing her hand to his hip and pulling him forward, jutting her own hip out so she bumped into him, deliberately. "You know we'll have to seal our deal."

"Naturally." It sounded like a word he'd picked up and hadn't used very often before. "How much do you require?"

A frown crossed her features. "What?"

"How much blood?" he asked slowly, as though speaking to a very small child, raising his arm and pushing his sleeve back.

She stared at the offered piece of skin for a few seconds before she barked a short laugh. "Much as I like the idea of drinking some angelic blood, I don't think yours'd do me much good now. I might as well go and drink human blood. And that never appealed to me much. What I want… " She let her hand trail up his exposed underarm, swirling her hand through the fine dark hair at the top before moving higher, up his arm and to his neck, her fingernails digging lightly into the skin next to the carotid. Felt the unsteady, thrumming pulse under her fingertips.

Humans. So fragile. Just a little more force, her fingernails just a little lower and adding a little more pressure, and she'd end him, here and now. She'd have killed an angel. She'd have — But no. No. Much as the idea pleased her, she still needed him. There was also another idea which was even more pleasing. She let her hand creep higher, returning to his face, to the stubble rasping against her fingers. "What I want is a proper seal. The old-fashioned way."

She was almost too close now to gauge his reaction. He tensed under her hands, his breath came faster. She smelled his skin, warm and alive. Human males. Or angels in human male meatsuits. Who really cared when it boiled down to the same thing? Hard lines, musky smell, body heat and, damn, those human bodies had a few rather nice perks.

"Now, come on," she whispered. "You've got to take the first step or it won't seal the deal."

For an instant, he hesitated, his eyes not meeting hers, a line furrowed between dark eyebrows.

This was taking too long. "If you show the same resolve betraying the Winchesters, then maybe I should go — "

Her arms were abruptly trapped in a vice-like grip. Meg bent backward, he followed, his body aligned with hers. Chapped lips crushed against hers with no gentleness, no finesse. Just the bruising pressure, teeth nipping at her lower lip, taking and demanding in way that no angel – fallen or not – should have known about. Her nipples scraped against his coat when she pressed closer. It was over before she could feel the lack of oxygen in her lungs; he pushed her away by her shoulders, a look of mild disgust on his face.

"Not bad for a cloud-hopping pansy," Meg admired before licking her lips. They felt swollen, abused by the angel's onslaught. "Nice. I might want to come back for more."

"Not in this life," he growled, before he added: "Not yours and not mine," and strangely enough, she believed him.

"So, exactly how do you plan on getting me a ride in Sam Winchester's hide again?" she asked, while stepping away from him a little. "Because last I knew, he had a pentagram tattooed on his equally pretty chest. Which, in case you forgot, prevents me from getting under his skin."

A feral grin crossed his features for a moment, fierce enough to make her mouth go dry and something in her clench with what felt suspiciously like fear. "I'm good with a boxcutter," was his cryptic answer.

My, my. All new layers, all the time. Who would have thought an angel could be quite so creative? Or blunt. Meg clucked her tongue in appreciation. "I like the way you think."

The grin faded from his features when he said, under his breath, so quietly she barely heard it, "I don't."

***

It was a beautiful thing to watch, even from afar.

Witness the angel. Meg bounced, rocking from her heels to the balls of her feet and back again. She couldn't wait for the moment Sam got it, realised just what their little Judas had done. She wondered, belatedly, if she should have given Castiel a handful of coins. But then, drama was more her father's metier.

Their voices were getting closer now, they boots crunching over dry leaves and sand; Sam's steps heavy, Castiel's lighter. They dragged to a stop a mere ten feet away from her. She pressed close against a blue Chevy, watching both men through the jagged, broken window.

"Cas, Cas, hey, wait. What is it?"

"I couldn't stay in there."

"Why not?"

A pause had Meg peering around the car's frame to see Castiel better, find out the reason for the delay in answering.

She saw the angel shaking his head.

"Talk to me," Sam said, voice gone low and imploring. "What's wrong?"

Meg curled her nose at the sudden gentleness in Sam's voice.

Castiel huffed, shoved his hands in the pocket of his jeans. "The list would be shorter if I told you what's right."

Sam snorted. "You really do have a problem with straight answers, don't you?"

"What do you wish me to say?"

"Cas, you just stormed out with a look on your face that I've never seen on you before. We have the apocalypse to avert here, so you're no good to us fracturing. If you need help dealing with this new situation, you need to tell us. We can't read your mind." Sam reached out to rest his hand on Castiel's shoulder and the angel flinched away.

Meg wondered if she should get him to Hollywood. This was seriously good stuff.

"Cas?" Sam tried again, a safe step away from the angel. "Tell me. What is it?"

"Do you want me to tell you that I hear everything at twice the volume now that my grace is gone? That every touch I don't expect and can't prepare myself for feels like I'm being electrocuted? That every emotion is so raw it takes everything out of me to just handle it?" Castiel whirled around. "Is it easier now that you know? Tell me, how am I supposed to fight like this?"

Meg held her breath. The energy seemed to seep from Castiel, his shoulders slumped, he dropped his head to his chest, inspecting his boots.

"I can't do this, Sam," Castiel was saying, his voice sounding gravelly and broken. "It's worse than just being cut off. I'm powerless. The apocalypse is upon us and all I can think about is how I'm locked in this body and can't do anything."

Meg admired Castiel more and more by the minute. He sounded so damn authentic even she had trouble not believing him.

"I'm useless, Sam. To Dean. To you. To Bobby. I can't go back to what I was and I can't be what you need in this limited form, and — "

The angel was doing a fantastic job. He was winning the big oaf's heart over easily.

"Hey, Cas, look," she heard Sam interrupt, "we need you around no matter what happened. Mojo or no mojo, you're part of the team."

Heartbreaking. Sweet. Meg fought the urge to press her hand against her chest and give a dramatic sigh. She would have enough time to mock Sam later. When he had no chance to run.

Castiel lowered his head and expelled a breath. "Thank you," was his answer. "In that case, you won't mind if I do this."

A thump and a crash, followed by the sound of fabric ripping and a blade being released from the boxcutter's confines.

These Winchesters and their soft spots. Meg shook her head. Sometimes she wondered why her father was so worried about the whole thing. Those two brothers were pathetic, riddled with self-doubt and self-hate, and not nearly as clever as they thought they were. Slow. Always so slow.

Meg smelled the blood before she rounded the car, taking her time, and saw it running off Sam Winchester's chest. Painting the angel's fingertips.

She grinned wide when he looked up at her from where he knelt next to Sam. Castiel's blue eyes were shadowed in a delectable darkness. "I didn't think you'd have the guts, Clarence," she said, admiringly. "We'll make a demon of you yet." She patted his hair.

"Stop talking. Just do it." His voice was clipped. Urgent. He looked toward the house and rose, a look of pain crossing his features. "Before Dean notices something."

A delighted tingling spread through her essence and settled into her meatsuit's bones. "Deano will be pissed," she sing-songed. "You might wanna start running."

"As soon as you have possession of his brother," Castiel replied, his eyes flickering nervously down the path to the house.

"In a hurry, angel? Afraid what the big bad Winchester will do when he finds out?"

"You talk too much." He surprised her by grabbing her arm, hard enough to leave a bruise and pushing her to her knees next to Sam Winchester's unconscious body. "Do it."

"No kiss goodbye, Clarence? For old times' sakes?" Another put-upon pout for the angel's benefit. When the expected reaction didn't come, she shrugged. "All right, then. It was a _pleasure_ working with you, angel. I'll give my father your regards."

Tipping her head back, she let her essence untangle, coiled it tight and moved it from the current meatsuit to the next, one long, slow exhalation in utter silence. Bodiless, she hovered for a moment, then moved over Sam's mouth, gliding in between half-opened lips, sliding into him, fusing with flesh and bone and thought and –

 _"Hello, Meg."_

This shouldn't be happening. He shouldn't expect her. Be able to interact with her. Much less speak to her. Panic began to rise, a slow, cold wave of dread spreading through her essence.

 _"Miss me?"_

Looking up through Sam Winchester's eyes, she saw the angel standing over her, head cocked to the side, a small smile playing around his lips that was even more terrifying than the one he had given her earlier. He crouched next to her meatsuit, patting Sam Winchester's cheek before saying, "I believe the correct term is _busted_."

Inside his body, inside his _mind_ , Sam Winchester attacked.

 

II

 

"No kiss goodbye, Clarence? For old times' sakes?"

Dean heard Meg's mocking words with a frown, wondering what the hell Cas had been doing to warrant them. Then again, what the hell were any of them doing? The whole plan was insane. He itched to bust in there and stop it… but it had been his plan. His idea. His stupid idea.

 _"This isn't up for negotiation, Sam."_

"Since when do you decide what I — "

"Since I'm the one who's going to have to watch you walk into hell, you stupid son of a bitch. So you damn well better give me this." Dean realised that his voice had turned from angry to pleading. "Please. It's just precaution. I just — " Dean trailed off, not daring to say what was in the room already. 'I just want to see if you're ready. If you're strong enough already.

 _"So, what, you want to make me go through a driver's test for a demon vessel?"_

"No!" Dean protested. "Yes. No!"

Sam cocked his head, giving him the look that said clearly, Bullshit.

 _Why the hell was Cas not helping? They had talked about it earlier. Not that he had actively supported Dean's idea, but now? Now he was just sitting next to the library door, elbow resting on the sideboard, head supported against his hand, eyes a million miles away. Present but not_ there. _It drove Dean insane._

"It's actually not a bad idea, kid," Bobby chimed in, and whoa, if Dean had been expecting anything from Bobby, it surely wouldn't have been agreement.

"What?" Bobby asked, shrugging. "It's insane, but it makes sense. In a really idiotic, Winchester way."

"You want me to do a test run with a demon in me to see if I can fight it by myself," Sam stated in a level voice that did nothing to hide the strain of keeping it that way. "Now, what about that makes any damned sense?" He leaned forward to glare first at Dean, then at Bobby. Dean knew that glare. He had come to fear it.

Dean stepped out from under it, angling his body toward Cas instead. "Cas, a little help, here?"

Cas reacted maddeningly slowly, coming back from what appeared to be miles away. It wasn't the first time Dean wondered what was going on in Cas' head since he returned. "The plan is insane," Cas stated, deadpan.

"Well, thanks a lot, you — "

"Insane, but all the better for it."

Dean let his mouth snap closed. He breathed. Blinked at Cas. Then blurted, "What?"

On any other day, it would have amused him to hear Sam ask the same question in unison with him. Not today.

"If Sam can't fight off even a simple demon, he will be unable to take on Lucifer. We can't risk him failing." Cas looked at Sam. Just looked. No glare, no stare. Just a level look.

Sam wilted under it.

Sam crossed his arms over his chest, cocking his hip against Bobby's desk. His shoulders were tense, Dean saw the itch to roll them, such a Sammy thing to do toward the end of a fight, a reaction as familiar to Dean as breathing. Sam was reconsidering. "How are we going to find a demon to possess me, though? They'll know they're being used as guinea pigs."

Cas' answer was short. "We lie."

Dean turned to him slowly, eyebrows raised in Sam's best 'Bitch, please' expression. "That simple?"

"That simple," Cas answered, the shrug that accompanied the words still dissonant with Dean's picture of Cas. "It's how you become president, isn't it?" He quirked one corner of his mouth up. It fell again when Dean didn't acknowledge the memory quickly enough, his mind still stuck on the fact that Cas had remembered that particular day.

"Demons are arrogant," Cas continued. "Some more so than others. If they get a chance to get on Lucifer's good side and view themselves as his commander-in-chief, they'll take it. So if they get the offer to possess Sam in order to bring his body to Lucifer… " Cas trailed off, gliding his palm over the sideboard.

"One of them'll take it," Dean finished.

Bobby threw Cas a look. "That's real sneaky, kid," he grudgingly admitted.

"A lack of intelligence _has never been my problem," Cas informed him and Dean couldn't quite fight a wince when the stress of Cas' words was clearly on 'intelligence'._

Bobby rolled his eyes. Sam did finally shrug the tension out of his shoulders. Argument won.

"So how are we going to convince a mystery demon to try and possess Sam?" he asked.

"Not we," Cas raised his gaze from the desk to Dean's face. "I will convince her."

"Her?" Dean asked, the question like a gunshot in the room. He didn't like where this was going. Most of all, he didn't like the idea of Cas being involved in this plan. He was clearly still shell-shocked over the whole drained batteries thing, and Dean wasn't going to lose him to another suicide mission. "Cas what—"

Cas raised a hand to stop Dean's tirade before Dean could even draw a breath. "Who's going to be more convincing than a de-powered angel who gave up everything for you and was betrayed in return?"

A fresh wave of nausea over those words brought Dean back from the memory.

"Dean!" Cas' voice was urgent and Dean ducked out from the barn door he'd been hiding behind, shaking the memory. It was done, then. Cas had managed. Meg was riding around in Sam's skin. The very thought of it made Dean's stomach revolt. He skidded to a halt next to Cas, carefully concentrating on Cas rather than Sam. He'd seen Sam possessed by Meg once and didn't really care for a face-to-face replay.

"It's on?"

Cas nodded. "If we want to get him inside, we need to do it while we still have the element of surprise on our sides."

"Right, right." Dean crouched next to Sam, trying to ignore the blood still drizzling from a clean cut across the tattoo on his chest. "Remind me to never give you a boxcutter again in your life."

They lifted Sam off the ground with some difficulty. Cas seemed to sway under the weight, a look of pain crossing his face when he slipped under Sam's arm and slung his arm around Sam's waist to steady him.

"You okay?" Dean asked as they dragged Sam with them.

Cas squeezed out the answer from between clenched teeth, "We don't have time for my well-being right now. Move."

Accepting Cas' still functioning spidey sense, Dean gripped Sam's arm tighter when he felt Sam's muscles tense. Sam's eyelids began to flutter and what Dean saw peeking through there wasn't his brother. He'd hoped that the initial shock would render the demon incapable of fighting back immediately and that Sam would be able to walk inside by himself, but he seemed to have underestimated Meg. Sam began to wake up and got heavier in the progress. Heavier and a lot less pliant. Damn it. _Damn it._ Maybe this hadn't been the best plan after all.

"Have the holy water ready, Bobby!" Dean shouted as Sam began to struggle against the hands holding and dragging him. "We're coming in hot."

***

Dean finished pouring the line of salt in front of the door with a lot more vigour than would have been necessary. He would have been a lot happier to lock Sam in the panic room, but that wouldn't work for obvious reasons – Sam needed to fight Meg himself, not with the aid of salt and iron and the devil's traps in there. The salt was for outside protection only. Just like him and Cas. Just in case.

Behind the door, Sam was screaming in anger – or rather, Meg was screaming with Sam's voice and the damn thing just wouldn't shut up. It was getting under Dean's skin more than he had expected when he'd thought this plan up. In his mind, it had been any demon. Any demon but the one that already had a history with Sam and him.

The door rattled on its hinges under the blows Meg rained against it. Sam's voice came through; Sam's voice, and yet not his, howling, harsh, screeching and cursing the way Sam never would. Dean pressed his eyes shut , balled his hands into fists at his sides, fighting the relentless energy coursing through his veins, his every instinct that wanted to make him do something. He'd stopped believing this was a good plan the moment Sam had opened his eyes, but Dean couldn't go back to stop it now. He needed a distraction from this or he'd burst into the damn room within the next two minutes.

Cas. He would think about Cas and whatever was going on in his head now the halo was history.

"Nice work there, Cas," he said, louder than necessary. Loud enough to drown out Sam's voice.

Cas just raised an eyebrow.

Dean fished for something, anything to say. Settled on the next best thing. "Meg isn't stupid. Wanna tell me how you managed to get her to play along?"

"I offered her what she wanted to hear." Cas didn't look at him but toed his shoes off instead.

Dean was distracted for a moment, gaze ensnared by Cas' sock-clad feet being released from the shoes' confines. Why the hell would he — ? Dean shook his head. The bastard was deliberately distracting him. No other reason for it. "And what was that?"

"It's not of import," Cas muttered.

"Not of — " Dean took a deep breath. "You son of a bitch. Would it really kill you to just answer a question with a straight answer?"

"No."

"So?"

"You wanted a straight answer. I answered your question. No, it would not kill me." Such a damn smug tone.

Frustration bubbling over, Dean hit his palm against the wall next to him. "Damn it, Cas!"

Cas seemed to slump, the spark going out of him. He looked at his bare feet on the dusty floorboards, curling his toes. "What do you want to know?"

 _Everything_ , Dean wanted to shout, but that wouldn't get him very far either. He didn't need a blow-by-blow recap of what happened. Just a few questions answered.

"Why did she believe you?"

"I told you," Cas said, his voice low and quiet. "I told her what she wanted to hear."

Pulling a tooth from a dog with rabies would have been easier than this. "Okay." Change of tactics, then. "What did she mean when she said 'a kiss for old times' sakes'?"

Cas shifted his weight from one foot to the other, still refusing to look at Dean. His hand went to his neck, scratching and, whoa, Dean had seen this gesture before. "Cas?"

Cas raised his eyes to look at Dean, defensiveness written plain on his face. "I had to make a deal."

"So you…" Dean trailed off.

"Yes."

"You actually kissed a demon." Dean knew he should have grinned, but the cosmic wrongness of Cas' admission sent him reeling so badly that the only thing he could default to was Smart-mouth 101. "I'm kind of surprised there wasn't a major lightning strike or something."

"Not funny, Dean." Cas mouth turn down unhappily. "I merely did what was necessary for her to accept my part. I made her believe I was ready to betray you."

Dean shook his head. "Gotta tell you, Cas," he said, letting grudging admiration colour his words. "I wouldn't have pegged you for an actor."

Cas met his gaze head-on. "I'm not."

Dean fought the urge to hold on to the door's handle as those words yanked the floor from underneath him in one smooth haul. _Damn it._

 

***

It was too quiet. Apart from the occasional crash of furniture being pushed over and gut-wrenching groans, it was suddenly too damn quiet in the spare bedroom they'd locked Sam in.

Dean had been pacing hallway in front of the room for half an hour now under Cas' watchful eyes, getting steadily more antsy. This was taking too long. If Sam really could fight the devil inside his own mind and body, he should have dealt with a demon like Meg in a matter of seconds. This wasn't going the way it was supposed to.

Except there were no other demons like Meg. No other demon had ever possessed Sam. Who knew what she'd learned from him before? Damn, it wasn't a fair test. Of course, Lucifer wasn't going to fight fair, either. It all came back to, if Sam couldn't beat Meg, how could he beat the devil?

He needed to check on Sam. If anything had happened, anything unexpected, he needed to be in there, with his brother. On the other side of that damn door. Not in the hallway, waiting.

Cas caught Dean's look and shook his head slightly, crossing his arms in front of his chest and taking a backwards step, closer to one of the many devil's traps Bobby had painted around the room before he'd left to take the woman Meg had possessed to the nearest hospital.

A new crash came from inside the room, glass shattering, wood groaning. Every muscle in Dean's body seemed to tense up at the same time, sending a piercing headache straight into his brain. A jumbled sound of pain, a groan, a yell and this was the panic room all over again, this was Dean waiting for Sam to fight something he ultimately couldn't, not without it killing him.

"Let me go in there," Dean demanded, taking a step toward Cas.

Cas shifted his weight from one sock-clad foot to the other, rolling his shoulders. "No."

Dean narrowed his eyes. "Cas."

Cas uncrossed his arms, letting them sink to his sides. "No, Dean." The gesture of his hands balling into fists at his sides was unmistakeable.

"Cas, for fuck's sake, I can't stay out here while that bitch is tearing him apart from the inside out!"

"You wanted him to do this without drinking demon blood. This was your demand. Your idea. _Your_ condition." Cas' words were relentless. No sympathy. No empathy.

"I know that, you bastard." The reply was supposed to be shouted, but his voice just gave, refused to stay raised. _I didn't know it would be like this._

Cas cocked his head, seemingly oblivious to the new sounds coming from the room behind him, to the door rattling on its hinges. Dean's skin crawled.

"What do you really want, Dean?" Cas asked, curiosity written all over his features: eyebrows drawn together, mouth pinched, lines fanning out from his eyes. "Do you want him to win or would you rather see him fail so you have a reason to make him stay?"

A beat of silence. Another. Cas' words trickled into Dean's mind slowly, registering after what felt like a small eternity. They created a small nova that obliterated everything in white-hot rage. The swing was short, powerful; his fist connected with Cas's cheekbone with a resounding crash that had the other man's head flinging to the side, knocking against the wall. Dean flashed back to another punch, to meeting steel and his fingers almost breaking when he'd hit Cas. This time, he met nothing but skin and bone and flesh, and the knowledge that the punch hurt was darkly satisfying. "Don't you dare assume what I want," he hissed, his hands shooting to Cas shoulders and pressing him against the wall. It was almost too easy.

It took Cas a few blinks to shake his head against the initial shock of the blow. He kept his temple where it had connected with the wall, breathing shallow. Dean saw Cas probing his tongue against the inside of his mouth where his teeth must have broken skin. When he finally raised his eyes to look at Dean, they were filled with something so alien Dean instinctively loosened his grip on Cas' shoulders.

"I'll let this one go," Cas said, his voice even lower than usual, breath deflecting off Dean's face in a warm puff of air. "But don't you _ever_ do that again."

Dean's heart stopped beating for a few seconds. This felt too much like déjà vu, Cas had the same relentless, terrifyingly cold stare that he'd had when he'd demanded more respect two years ago. Only this time… Dean's heart began beating again, twice as forceful, sudden rage singing out from every bone in his body. "What are you going to do, huh? Throw me back in the pit?" He inclined his head, letting a parody of a smile cross his face, pressed closer to Cas, their chests touching enough he could feel Cas' heartbeat. Strong. Rapid. "Ain't gonna work anymore without that angel mojo, huh, Cas?"

A small, disconnected part of Dean's brain tried desperately to make him back off and stop talking. What the fuck was he doing? He had Cas pressed against the wall, his arm propped over Cas' throat. Dean saw the bruise on Cas' cheekbone already purpling under the stubble that was on the best way to turn into a scruffy beard.

Yet, Cas' eyes were calm, unfazed. He inclined his head, meeting Dean's gaze squarely. "Try me."

The pulse at Cas' neck jumped. This close, Dean smelled bitter sweat and dust on Cas' skin, mingling with the stink of Dean's own fear.

Cas was right. Dean didn't want Sam to win this fight. Wanted to drag Meg out of Sam screaming and kicking, wanted to do it himself and not have Sam fight and win. The thought of Sam winning this fight scared the living daylights out of him. It meant letting Sam go, sealing the deal Death had made.

Dean wasn't ready for it. Couldn't ever be. The desperate rage flooding his system over this decision had his muscles tensing, his jaw clenching. It was easier, so much easier to direct this anger at Cas. Because, angel or human, Cas could take it. Could take it and throw it back in his face and make him remember why he'd wanted this whole test. Plus, maybe Cas _could_ throw him back to hell.

For a moment of blinding clarity, Dean wasn't sure if he didn't want Cas to do it. If hell wouldn't be easier to take for Sam with Dean being there.

As though reading his mind, Cas suddenly moved, a lightning-quick whirl of arms and clever technique — a warrior, this shouldn't come as a surprise, _"I'm a soldier, Dean."_ — breaking the hold Dean had on Cas. In a dizzying moment that had the blood rushing in his ears, Dean was twisted around and thrown against the wall, even felt the drywall give a little under the impact. His bones protested against abuse that was too damn reminiscent of the beating Dean had taken in the alley. Cas' fingers curled into the front of Dean's shirt, bunching and pulling it tight over Dean's shoulders. Hot breath stirred against Dean's skin. There was nothing angelic about Cas anymore, nothing remained but feral anger. If Dean parted his lips now, he'd be able to taste Cas' breath.

Back to square one, then.

"Tell me you haven't thought about it," Dean said, seeing how his own breath stirred the sweaty hair at Cas' temple. Hair that had always been immaculate before. Hair that was tainted now, like the rest of Cas.

"I won't," Cas growled. His mouth turned into a tight line. He pushed even farther into Dean's body, sealing their bodies against one another as he gripped Dean by the throat. "I won't."

Dean tried to swallow against the pressure applied to his Adam's apple, relaxed all his muscles at once, forcing Cas to all but support him and hold Dean's body up with his own.

"You should," Dean rasped, meeting Cas' gaze head-on.

Something unreadable flickered through Cas' eyes, gone too quickly to identify it. The pressure against his throat eased. "I'm not going to repeat the alley, Dean," Cas said, weariness creeping into his voice.

"Then what _are_ you gonna do? There's no option, Cas."

Instead of an answer, Cas let go of him without warning, making Dean slip against the wall and grapple for purchase before Cas' hands were back, jerking, pulling Dean against him, Cas' lips sealing cruelly against Dean's.

Something numb and shocky flooded Dean's veins. Suddenly, he couldn't hear anything besides the rushing of his blood in his ears, the sound of Cas' breathing, a quiet cacophony that was too close to Cas' real voice for his comfort. It wasn't a kiss, just bruising pressure and then there were teeth closing on his lower lip for a split second and Dean's head cracked against the wall as he jerked it away from the sudden sharp pain.

Dean felt Cas' body against his, half-shocked to realise that Cas was hard against him, his erection urgent and grinding into Dean. This wasn't who he'd always thought he was and what, before knowing Cas, he'd ever thought he wanted, but, sucking in a gulping breath of air and reaching for Cas' shoulder to reel him in impossibly closer, this was what he needed. He needed Cas' mouth on him, Cas' skin under his fingers, Cas' dick against his own. Dean was hard in a matter of seconds when he tunnelled his hands underneath Cas' shirt to feel hot, smooth skin, slicked by a strip of sweat down the spine. He found Cas' mouth blindly, licking past anger and confusion and guilt to meet Cas' tongue in a struggle for oblivion.

Cas' hands were on Dean's pants by now, fiddling, tearing. Finally, with a frustrated growl, Cas bypassed Dean's belt and just unzipped Dean's jeans, reaching inside roughly, tangling fingers in fabric before shoving past his boxer shorts straight to Dean's dick.

Jesus, Cas' hand was cold.

Dean hissed and swallowed an expletive, sucked Cas' lower lip into his mouth, pulling a groan from Cas that reverberated back through Dean to his spine. His heart pounded in his ears, faster by the second. Cas shouldn't know this, shouldn't know any of this, but, most of all, he shouldn't know that this was exactly what Dean needed.

His thought process derailed entirely when Cas closed his hand roughly around his oversensitized dick just as his lips reached Dean's ear, and he sank his teeth into Dean's earlobe.

Dean bucked into Cas' hand, unable to stay quiet any longer. "Fuck."

Skin and touch and musk and sweat and need and pain. Dean's base instincts took over, need sang out into every nerve ending in his body. He dug his fingers into Cas' back, not caring that he would leave bruises, moved his hands lower, under the waistband of Cas' too loose jeans — Dean's jeans, too fucking big on him — finding a firm ass and grabbing it, no finesse, no gentleness, just _more_. Cas' erection was an insistent pressure against Dean's thigh, but he didn't care, not about reciprocating, not when Cas teeth were back, grazing against his jaw, sharp pain shooting straight to Dean's dick. He gulped in air, smelling musk and sex, and dug his hands even tighter into Cas' ass, felt more than heard Cas groan and lose his rhythm in response.

Cas' grip was too tight, the skin of his rough palm too dry as it moved over Dean's dick, friction and pressure to the point of hurting. Nothing mattered but the pressure building inside Dean, the implosion that would white out everything in him for just a few glorious seconds, higher and higher until —

Cas' hand stilled. His entire body stilled. His heavy breathing gusted down Dean's neck, crept under the collar of his shirt.

An inarticulate noise of protest wrung itself from Dean's throat and he pushed his hips forward, frantically searching for that last bit of pressure to send him over the edge — but it never came. Cas untangled himself from Dean, struggling against Dean's hands as Dean tried to hold on to Cas' ass, pulling him back against Dean in a desperate attempt to finish, to fall over that final edge.

"Dean." Cas' voice was so low and breathless it barely registered over the howl of frustration that was filling Dean's mind. Cas grabbed Dean's wrists and pulled them out of the jeans, pressing Dean's hands flat against the wall. He didn't look at Dean, just breathed. Heavy, laboured breaths through his nose, as though trying to suppress more sounds from escaping.

When the rushing in his ears eased a little, Dean realised why Cas had stopped.

Behind the door was silence. No more crashing. No more pacing. A sound like a storm flaring up and ebbing down. Then, one word, spoken quietly just behind the door, "Dean?"

Ice flooded Dean's veins. He pushed at Cas, who stumbled back and out of Dean's focus. Ignoring the sweat on his body and the sparking sensation along his spine, he tucked himself in, zipped up with difficulty and put his hands against the door. "Sammy?"

"Dean, I — "

Without thinking, Dean unlocked the door, stumbling into the room to find Sam on his knees, hands on the ground to support him, his hair hanging in his face, shadowing his features.

"Sam?" Dean asked, stretching out a hand but not venturing closer just yet. "That you in there?"

Sam raised his head just a little, answering with a shaky, "Ding-dong, the witch is dead."

"You son of a bitch." Dean pressed a hand to his mouth, trying to keep in a sound of mingled victory and despair. Smelled Cas on his hand and closed his eyes, guilt churning in his stomach.

He opened his eyes again, watching Sam scramble to his feet and stumble toward the bed with a groan. Bedsprings squeaked as he dropped on it, face-first.

"Sam, are you — "

"Can we talk later?" Sam mumbled from where his face was pressed into the pillow. "I'm just tired."

Dean swallowed against the flood of questions on the tip of his tongue, pushed the clawing concern aside and nodded. Grabbed a blanket, covered Sam and walked toward the door. He thought he heard a mumbled: "It's okay, Dean. It'll be okay," before he reached the door. Turning back with his hand on the doorknob, he listened to Sam's breath hitch and grow laboured before, after long minutes, it finally evened out and turned into the deep calm of sleep.

Dean slipped out and closed the door behind him as quietly as possible.

In front of it, he sank into a crouch, head resting against the wall.

Sam had made it.

Cas was gone.

The hallway still smelled like sex.

 _Fuck._

 

III

Bobby had been back for about an hour now, busying himself in the kitchen to fix dinner with the groceries he'd brought back with him. Dean smelled meatloaf and the unmistakeable whiff of boiling potatoes.

Dean almost missed the sound of Sam's feet on the staircase over the sound of pots clanking.

"Hey," Sam announced as he stumbled into the kitchen, heading straight for the coffee-maker. Bobby sat down the pot he was holding

Dean's head snapped up, searching Sam's face, not entirely sure for what. He only saw fatigue and that was oddly comforting.

"How you feelin'?" Bobby asked, looking at Sam as though ready to dissect him.

Sam shrugged. "Fine."

"Really?"

"Surprisingly, yeah." Sam rubbed a hand over his forehead before reaching for a mug and filling it with coffee. "You should have heard her screaming bloody murder at Cas, though." He cocked his hip against the counter, twitching a grin.

"Speaking of which — " Bobby started, looking at Dean. "Where is he, anyway?"

Dean's shoulders knotted almost instantly. Defensiveness crept up. "How would I know?"

Bobby gave him The Look and Dean threw up his hands. "I was a little preoccupied with Sam at the time. Haven't seen him since."

Stepping away from the coffee maker, Bobby twisted the blind a little, then groaned. "Could you get that idjit in before he kills himself?" Bobby said, not taking his eyes off whatever he saw outside the window.

"What is it, Bobby?" Sam still looked rumpled from sleep, sipped his coffee slowly, trying to wake up.

"Your angel. He's doing his Karate Kid routine again."

"So?" Sam asked, confusion written all over his face.

Bobby crossed his arms, giving both Sam and Dean a glare. "It's thirty degrees outside and the idjit is wearing a t-shirt."

"He's a grown up," Dean huffed, unwilling to disclose the jolt of worry Bobby's words gave him. "Doesn't need a babysitter."

Bobby's eyebrows shot up in a way that made it clear Dean was in trouble. "He's been human for a week now. Ever considered that maybe he doesn't know what he's in for?" The 'get out there now and do something before the idjit gets frostbite' wasn't even implied. Bobby might as well have shouted it.

"He's an angel, Bobby. I think he can handle it." Really, Dean needed him to. He also desperately needed to not talk to Cas right now. Because, what could he say? _'Hey, thanks for distracting me by jerking me off and then leaving me with the blue balls of the century, sorry there was no time to return the favour?'_

"Get out there, Dean. _Now._ Before I slap some sense into that brick head of yours."

Dean looked at Sam, but the traitor just shrugged. "He's right."

Great. Dean flicked the bottle cap he was holding at Sam's face, then scraped the chair he was sitting on over the wooden floor. "Fine."

Without thinking, he stopped to grab his sweatshirt off the armchair before heading out.

***

"So," Dean said as he halted his steps next to Cas. "What are you doing?" His words turned into white puffs that moved in Cas' direction. Fuck, but it was cold. Dean gripped the sweatshirt he was holding tighter, winding it around his hand.

Cas shot him a quick look but resumed going through the fluid motions Dean had been watching from the window for a while now.

"Problem: attitude, Daniel-san."

Cas stopped in mid-movement, eyebrows knitting. "You realise that that reference means nothing to me, Dean, right?"

"Right," Dean answered. He switched on a grin. "Got you to stop, though, didn't it?"

Cas relaxed, guiding his leg back to the ground and standing with his arms hanging loosely at his sides. "It did."

"So, what's with the Tai Chi crap?" Of course, Dean had recognised what Cas was doing. Techniques like that were part of hunter training, getting in touch with your body was an important part of the trade. Ellen had refined the basic training he'd had. If you weren't familiar with your body's reactions, she'd said, didn't know how to give it what it needed, you were dead.

"Do I really need to explain?"

"Actually, yeah. Since you kinda suck at the whole elaborating thing."

"Dean." The single word held enough exasperation for a lifetime. Cas rolled his shoulders, working out a kink there and wincing at the sound of bones and ligaments crunching.

"That's not an answer."

Cas shot him a dirty look and Dean wondered when Cas had picked up Sam's "No shit, Sherlock" glare.

With a gusty sigh, Cas answered, "Physical exercise helps to quiet my mind. Since I woke up in that hospital bed, everything has been too loud. My grace is no longer there to shield me. Every emotion, every sensation, is raw and real and too close."

Dean shoved his hands underneath his armpits, taking the sweatshirt with them, one sleeve dangling toward the ground and brushing the frost-glittered dirt.

"Every sensation, huh?" Dean said, his tongue heavy in his mouth. If he lifted his hands to his face now, he'd still be able to smell Cas on his fingers. If he didn't ignore it, his earlobe throbbed in the exact places Cas' teeth had left marks. He was surprised to hear a huff of laughter from Cas.

"Dean, what happened earlier is the least of my problems."

Still torn between the shame burning in his cheeks and the need to run far, far away from this conversation, Cas' words slowly trickled in. Dean's head snapped up, and he was looking at Cas, really looking at him for what seemed like the first time since Cas got back.

Cas looked, for the lack of a better word, frail. Dean had never seen so much skin on Cas before, and so little clothing, so few layers to shield him from the human world. But now here he was, in a pair of Dean's jeans and one of Dean's old shirts, soft with many washings and now dark with sweat, clinging to Cas' wiry frame. Human. But still enough of an angel underneath that Dean didn't doubt for a moment that Cas would pull through. He was a soldier and he made do. It would take time, and it would hurt like hell, but it was what Cas did, what he'd always done, since the day he'd pulled Dean out of hell. No matter what life threw at him, Cas either dodged it or accepted the blow and rolled with it, riding out the pain and coming out stronger on the other side of it. Dean just didn't know how much it would take out of Cas to roll with this one.

Cas had started to shiver as the late autumn chill cooled the sweat.

Dean snapped himself out of his contemplation, trying for levity. "We'll both have even more problems if I don't get you inside soon." He threw the sweatshirt at Cas, deliberately aiming at Cas' face. "Put this on before you freeze to death. Then come inside and take a shower. You stink."

Cas caught the sweatshirt one-handed before it hit him. He held it up, looking at the size. "Yours?" he asked.

Dean shrugged a yes. Of course it was. Cas would have drowned in Sam's clothes. Even Dean's stuff was too loose on him. Dean'd have to take him to a couple of his favourite burger joints after the damn apocalypse was averted, to get some meat on Cas' bones.

Looking at the sweatshirt for a long moment, Cas bunched it in his hands, brought it to his face and… inhaled. Uninhibited. In that fucking matter-of-fact way of his that saw absolutely no problem with inhaling the scent of Dean's sweatshirt.

Dean stared, unblinking. His heart stuttered to a stop, his mouth suddenly too dry to even swallow.

Cas let his hands sink down, quirked a small smile in Dean's direction. "I'll wear it after the shower, then."

***

 

"First Karate Kid and now a hobbit, too? It's getting a bit much, kid," Bobby said and Dean flinched when he suddenly saw Cas beside him, sliding the chair back and sitting down in front of the empty plate. Dean hadn't heard him come down the stairs at all.

Cas shot Bobby a confused frown, prompting Bobby to elaborate, "Normal people wear shoes."

"I'm not a normal person," Cas stated, matter-of-factly, while running his hand along the rim of the plate.

Bobby snorted. "Gee, thanks for the reminder."

Cas looked better, Dean thought. Skin slightly red and hair still wet from the shower like a kid. He definitely smelled better than before. Dean's sweatshirt was loose on him, but at least he looked a warmer. The no-shoes thing was a puzzle, though, one he'd have to ask about sooner or later. The purpling bruise on Cas' cheek was barely visible under the stubble, but the mere shadow of it had Dean's guilt-metre pegging out. Damn it. Damn it all.

"Stop staring, boy," Bobby snapped good-naturedly. "Make yourself useful and get the meatloaf from the oven."

"Yes, mother," Dean answered.

Bobby threw an oven mitt at him. "Idjit."

From the corner of his eye, just as he caught the mitt, he saw Sam smile at their exchange. Dean concentrated on the meatloaf instead, pulling the sizzling pan out of the oven.

The smell was an instant trip down the memory lane and Dean wondered if Bobby had remembered that his meatloaf was one of Sam's and his favourite dishes. No one made it quite the way Bobby did. Something about using dark beer and tomato paste, Bobby had explained once. Neither Dean nor Sam had really cared, all that mattered was that it tasted awesome. It smelled and looked extra-good tonight, too, as though Bobby had put particular effort into it. Like one would for someone's last meal…

Dean's hand slipped and his fingertips touched the hot metal. He dropped the pan back on the rack, cursing, and shoved his burnt fingers into his mouth.

"You all right?" he heard Sam ask.

"Fine," he answered automatically around his fingers. "Fine." Just peachy.

"Don't you dare drop it," Bobby groused. "I made an effort with this."

 _Damn it, Bobby, don't confirm it, don't, just don't._

"All good. Nothing happened," Dean said as he grabbed the oven mitts again to carry the pan to the table. The smile he plastered on his face was so fake it hurt.

Of course, Bobby noticed. Of course, he had to look fucking guilty about it, too. But Dean couldn't berate him for it, not when Bobby meant well, not when cooking Sam's favourite dish was the only thing he could still do to make this even remotely bearable.

Dean fought the urge to fling the meatloaf pan half way across the room. Instead, he set it down gingerly, tipping it on the plate right in front of Bobby. "Do the honours, chef."

Sam moved his chair closer to the table, his eyes brightening. Cas was still busy running his finger along the rim of his plate, so lost in thought Dean doubted Cas noticed anything around him. The sight alone made Dean want to take the plate and smash it just to bring Cas back to the here and now.

He didn't. It was the unspoken rule at this table, in this kitchen, for the night. No fuss. No drama. Just pretend everything was fine.

Bobby took the knife, set the tip against the meatloaf, then stopped, a smile spreading over his face. "Hey, did I ever tell you how I learned to make this?"

"Not really," Sam said. He, too, was making an effort, though Dean could tell that he didn't really care.

"I was down in Memphis for a hunt, helping this elderly southern lady who claimed she had a Barghest problem before her husband passed away. She was hearing it again and was afraid something was going to happen to her kids or grandkids."

"Barghest?" Dean echoed.

"You might know it as Black Shuck," Bobby explained.

Sam straightened a little, interest piqued. "Monstrous black dog, huge teeth and claws, glowing red eyes, all that jazz, portent of death of close relatives?"

"That's our friend," Bobby confirmed. "Now, she'd insisted on making me dinner while I was there helping her out, and she'd made this awesome meatloaf when suddenly, we heard barking and howling outside. She starts shaking, saying that it's there and it's come to get her. So I go outside, all armed and ready for a fight and she insists on following me, saying she won't feel safe in the house. We search for an hour, no signs of the Barghest, just a trail of paw-prints leading back to the house."

Bobby pressed the knife against the meatloaf, cutting the first, generous slice. He placed it on Sam's plate, who immediately started shoveling buttermilk mashed potatoes next to it without taking his eyes off Bobby.

"And?" Dean asked, curious despite the obvious distraction.

"We come back to the house and there's this giant dog in the kitchen, snoring next to the stove. I get ready to shoot it when it wakes up and blinks at us, yawning so huge you'd think it wants to swallow us whole."

Sam stopped shoveling. "And?"

"Well, turns out all it swallowed was the meatloaf."

"No Barghest?" Sam's plate clanked against the table as he set it down.

Bobby shook his head, grinned, and sliced more of the meatloaf. "A black Mastino. His name was Pinocchio. Belonged to the neighbours a few houses down the road."

"Pinocchio?"

"Yup," Bobby answered. "Had a problem with his nose, too."

Sam laughed. A good, infectious sound Dean hadn't heard in way too long. For a moment, it made him forget everything around him, even Bobby serving Cas and Cas starting to tuck in without waiting.

"These black dogs are easily confused with normal dogs, it seems," Dean said. "Something similar happened to Sam and me once in Ohio. Remember that, Sammy?"

Sam stopped chewing with the fork half-way en route to his mouth. He let it fall back into the mashed potatoes and swallowed. "You mean the poodle incident?" His eyebrows knitted in displeasure. "I thought we'd decided to never talk about that again. Ever."

"Aww, come on, Sammy, those were good times," Dean said, chuckling around a bit of meatloaf. He made the mistake of looking at Sam, of catching his brother's damn lost puppy look and the smile slipped from his lips. Good times. Good times that would never come back because this was it. Sammy was going to hell with Lucifer. This was one of the last dinners they'd have together.

It was suddenly hard to swallow.

"Can I have the mashed potatoes, please?" Cas' softly spoken question was too loud in the sudden deathly silence of the kitchen. It managed to shake them all from their stupor, though. Bobby reacted automatically, reaching for Cas' plate and spooning a giant portion of mashed potatoes on it without even really looking at the plate.

"Thank you." Cas started eating with a healthy appetite, slow and methodical, apparently oblivious to the heavy tension in the room. Everything seemed to come easy to him, Dean noticed with a sudden burst of irritation toward Cas. Becoming human, gay sex, this… It had to be nice, being able to feel so little.

He'd barely allowed the thought to surface when he already kicked himself for thinking it. None of this was easy for Cas. He'd let a glimpse of that show outside, but that barely scratched the surface. Cas did a damn good job of hiding it. Too good of a job.

"I sometimes wonder if Black Shucks and Hellhounds are related somehow," Sam suddenly said. The need to pick up the conversation to say anything at all to break the silence sang from his every pore. "I mean, they're both portents of death, both vicious with giant teeth and claws. Only, one is visible and the other one can only be seen by the person who…" He trailed off, looking at Dean with something akin to horror. His dinner lay forgotten on the plate. Dean saw fork marks in the mashed potatoes, spiral patterns that only a nerd like Sam would draw. Sammy had done that since he was four.

Any other day, Dean would have laughed at the look on Sam's face. Today, all he managed to say was, "Shut up, Sammy. Just… shut up."

Sam dropped his gaze back to his plate. Started drawing more patterns in the mashed potatoes. Stopped when he noticed Dean watching. Pushed the plate away from him.

"You're not going to finish?" Bobby asked, his voice carefully neutral.

Sam swallowed thickly, rubbed his left hand over his forehead. "Guess I'm not as hungry as I thought I was."

"Sam," Dean said, too close to pleading for his own liking. Not for himself. For Bobby and the wounded look he tried to hide. Were they all trying to kill him tonight?

"You should eat, Sam," Cas suddenly piped up, words muffled around a mouthful of mashed potatoes. "It really is very good." He appeared to be looking at his plate but Dean saw the glances he shot Sam. Not quite as far away as Dean had thought, then.

Sam expelled air from his lungs explosively, a blend between a huff and a laugh. "It is." He pulled the plate toward him again. "Thanks, Bobby."

Bobby waved a hand. "Eh." Dean heard the smile behind the syllable. "There's plenty more if you like. Just don't let it get cold."

They spent the rest of the meal in silence, stealing glances at each other.

 

 

IV

 

Bobby cleared the table, letting everything clatter into the sink. "Cas, dishes."

To Dean's surprise, Cas didn't even blink. Once again he wondered just what Bobby and Cas had talked about before Dean went to Detroit. Cas had seemed different afterward.

Sam's chair scraping against the kitchen planks made Dean look up again.

"Guys, I'm going to grab a bit of fresh air and then sack out if you don't need me?" His hands clenched around the chair's back were white-knuckled, making Dean want to ask him if turfing Meg had been _that_ exhausting. Again, he didn't. Unspoken rule of the dinner.

"Go, get your beauty sleep, princess," he said instead.

Sam smiled. "Good night, jerk." He squeezed Dean's shoulder on the way out, grip too strong and too damn desperate while at the same time too familiar and too comforting. "Bobby, Cas." Sam nodded at them, then walked out of the kitchen.

The open door brought in a cold draft from outside. Dean shivered.

***

Bobby and Cas had left the kitchen already when, after having been outside for half an hour, Sam stumbled off to the shower, the third one already after the successful fight with Meg. He swore that he still smelled sulphur everywhere on him. Bobby followed him upstairs — loud, thumping steps up the stairs. A small amount of bickering over who would use the bathroom first followed, then Dean heard Bobby gargling and spitting in the bathroom, followed by the unmistakeable sound of Bobby's creaking bedroom door and a subdued but proud, "Good night, boy."

The shower ran for a good fifteen minutes before Dean heard Sam leave the bathroom. Then Sam's bedroom door closed too and Dean tried to fight the feeling of disappointment welling up.

Not that he would have wanted to talk about what had happened, but he'd been hoping to at least spend some of the evening with Sam. His victory meant one thing, so very clearly, after all: Dean would have to let him go in just a few more nights. He'd promised. He'd have to let his brother trap the devil and walk into hell and there'd be nothing, absolutely nothing, Dean could do to help him. So he'd wanted this evening, even as he'd dreaded it.

The thought of it clawed at his insides and he was still frantically searching for a way out, something, anything to stop this from happening, but Sam's closed door sent a clear message. _Don't. Let me do this._

Dean remembered some of the last things Jo had said to Ellen before they both died to give Sam and him a chance to ice the devil. _'This is your last chance to treat me like an adult. You might wanna take it.'_

They both had died to make what was about to happen even possible. How could Dean belittle their sacrifice by trying to find a way out?

How the hell could he not? This was his brother, the one his whole life had revolved around ever since Dean rescued him from his nursery. How could he just let him walk into hell for eternity?

On the other hand, he had no right to take away Sam's choice. He couldn't invalidate Cas' sacrifice. Hadn't their whole stunt been about proving that there was such a thing as free will?

Sam had made his choice. There was no way Dean could change his mind or stop him. He couldn't save his brother. Not this time.

He couldn't save his brother.

He couldn't.

It broke his heart.

He looked at the mug of coffee in his hand, feeling his muscles tense with the urge to throw it against the wall. He wanted to destroy everything inside the kitchen just to see it break, to destroy as much as possible just to get rid of the restless energy coursing through him. Instead, he set the mug down in the sink. Unclenched his hand. Closed his eyes and just breathed.

 _Oh, God, Sammy._

Sam's mumbled "It's okay," from earlier haunted him. Haunted a place inside he was afraid to visit. Mentally, he held the door closed with both hands, but felt how, inexorably, it was opening, inch by inch. He wasn't ready.

He washed the mug mechanically and stepped into the library to check on the fire, just to do something to distract himself. He saw Cas sitting on the couch but didn't greet him.

During Bobby's paralysis this couch in the library had been replaced by a bed. Dean remembered the pill bottles on the nightstand and the stab of guilt he'd felt everytime he saw them. He couldn't stop a smile from spreading when he saw that the couch was back. The next second, his smile disappeared like the bed. The price for that — for Bobby walking again and helping them — had been Bobby's soul. Another sacrifice. Just like Cas losing his mojo. They all did it for Sam and him. Sacrifices to give them this dwindling chance.

The need to destroy everything around him welled up again and he reached for the iron hook, clenching his hand around it.

He let it sink again, the tension dissipating slowly, when he remembered that he wasn't alone in the library. He steeled himself to talk to Cas, however awkward it would be, but stopped half-way into the room.

What he didn't expect to find was to find Cas asleep, his head resting against the side of the couch, neck cricked. Legs drawn up and his bare feet peeking over the edge of the couch. He was still wearing Dean's sweatshirt. He looked rumpled and pliable in the semi-darkness. Dean seized the chance to crouch next to the fireplace, soak up its warmth, and just _look_. Look past the weirdness of seeing Cas sleep at all. He needed a shave, his feet looked cold, the toes dirty – why the hell had he taken to walking around barefoot, anyway? — and the omnipresent dark shadows under his eyes were even more prominent. Like this, with the lines smoothed off his face and his lips just barely closed, Cas looked like he couldn't hurt a fly, much less beat Dean up or throw him against a wall. Much less give Dean a handjob against a wall.

Dean's hand went to his ear without a conscious thought, rubbing at the sting Cas' teeth had left. It was hard to clamp down on his body's response to the memory. On the need to reach out and touch the parts of Cas' body he'd felt earlier, to find out if his skin felt warmer now, less gritty with sweat and dust and fear. The memory brought a welcome distraction from the gaping hole opening up in Dean's chest at the memory of why he'd been waiting in front of that door. Dean concentrated on the mindless physicality of what Cas had done, the way he had stopped Dean's thoughts and grounded him in his body It had been welcome, more than welcome. But now, looking at Cas, Dean wondered why he'd done it. How had Cas known? Just what had been going on in that twisty angelic head?

Back then, when Cas had stopped his hand, and the noises behind the door had stopped, Dean's sole concern had been Sam, because it was always Sam. But Sam had shut him out tonight and there was nothing else Dean could do. Now he had had enough time to remember that he hadn't even given Cas a wordless thank you.

Cas breathed deep, shifted his head against the couch in search of a more comfortable position, and Dean realised that a thank you was needed. For everything. For just rolling with the shit that had been raining on Cas ever since he joined Team Free Will.

It didn't make sense to want to do this now, when everything was done but nothing was said. Selfishly, Dean needed to show Cas that he was grateful. Grateful to have him around, at his back, reliable, strong. Dean remembered what he'd heard Cas say earlier, and what he'd heard him say to Sam when they'd gone outside to trap Meg. Maybe not so strong right now. More like freaked out. Even though Dean was sure that, of all people, Cas didn't do freak-outs.

Looking at Cas again, Dean fought the urge to just get up and rest his hand against the strip of skin that showed just below the neckline of the sweatshirt, bared by the tilt of Cas' neck. To touch and see how Cas would react to something that wasn't hard and fast and mindless.

The firelight made Cas look ridiculously serene, his face soft. Asleep, safe in the library for the moment, asleep like Sam and Bobby upstairs, safe in Bobby's house, all of them. It scared Dean how he'd be willing to give his soul again, without thinking, to make sure it stayed this way. If neither of them would have to do what fate asked of them, he would.

Dean looked at Cas and imagined him at peace with being human. Not lost and stumbling through something he didn't choose. Imagined him seeing the good things. Living life fully and enjoying it. A very small part of Dean clung to the desperate hope that maybe he would have a part in such a life if he set things right.

Of course, this was what he wanted, not what he could have. Not now. Not in the future because there might be no future beyond next week.

But he could look. Take this with him. The mirage of another what-if.

Fuck it all to hell, but he was a melodramatic wuss.

Dean twitched back into the here and now when a log shifted in the fireplace and sank into the ash with a hiss. Long ingrained reflexes kicked into gear and Dean turned his head instinctively, his gaze flicking to the window to check if anything had moved out there. His gaze swept by Cas — and stayed. It took him a while to realise that Cas' eyes were no longer closed.

"You think too loud." Cas seemed calm, casual, maybe even light-hearted. At a total dissonance with everything Dean had just imagined Cas feeling.

Dean blinked as Cas stretched out a hand in his direction. His gaze flickered up. Back down. From Cas' face to his hand. That slim, elegant, deadly hand with the rough palm and the bruised knuckles, offered to him.

Dean suddenly felt light-headed. After all the times he'd fucked up and screwed Cas over, after a year of dancing around what he wanted, what he thought maybe Cas wanted, after Cas was reduced and lost, Cas still reached out to him. As if it was easy.

His hand twitched toward Cas. He stopped it in mid-movement, balled it into a fist. "No."

"Dean."

"I can't." Dean looked to the fireplace, both hands in fists, his elbows resting on his knees, knuckles firmly pressed together. ' _You_ can't,' he added in thought.

"Why?"

Damn that sense of absoluteness. Damn Cas for even asking. Damn him, because Dean knew a dozen answers to that question, fear of intimacy being the neon-bright one that marched before all the others, and he couldn't voice a single one.

"Because."

"Mmh," Cas said, amusement colouring his words. "Eloquent."

Dean tensed for a moment, his knees protesting the crouched position he was still in. He was ready to throw a punch, then dropped his head, huffing a rough laugh. "You son of a bitch." He shook his head. "I'm having a full-on freak-out here and you're mocking me?"

He heard Cas shift on the couch. "Would you like me to offer you sympathy?"

Why the hell was Cas so casual about this? "I'd settle for frigging empathy."

"My hand is still stretched out."

Dean rose, turned to Cas and stepped closer to the couch. "Don't you see it, you stupid idiot? You're not going to be gone the next morning. Or the morning after that. You know me too damn well and you don't strike me as the type to just get up and leave at sunrise. You'd be there for the days to come."

"This week, yes." Cas nodded gravely. "However, I don't really see the point of making plans for after we attempt to trap Lucifer. The chances of winning are slim."

Dean winced. "Cas? The moment to shut up and not say what's on your mind came and went about ten seconds ago."

"Dean, we have two, maybe three more days before the world is likely going to end. Why do you insist on being difficult?"

Why the hell? Why the hell was this easier for Cas than it was for him? Cas shouldn't know about burying his pain in sex like humans did. He couldn't.

"Don't steal my line. Don't you fucking steal my last-night-on-earth line."

"Dean."

Damn absolute angel just wouldn't let him get away with it. Fine, then. Fine. Dean ran his hands through his hair. "Because it scares me. This. It scares the hell out of me. More than hell does."

"It shouldn't."

"Why not?"

"Because." Cas reached up and reeled him in and kissed him before Dean could retreat. "Because," Cas repeated, the murmur vibrating against Dean's lips. Showing what he needed to say because he couldn't say it and resorted to the language of skin and hands, a carbon copy of what Dean usually did.

Dean didn't have time to dwell on that thought because the next kiss came quick, not very gentle, kind of off-centre and inexperienced. Cas pulled and Dean followed and he landed half on the couch, half on Cas' lap. He pushed his hands underneath the sweatshirt. Cas' heart beat against his fingertips, Dean felt it even at the side of Cas' ribs, fast and strong, and Dean couldn't help but let his hands roam more freely. He wanted everything, in this small moment of oblivion. If Cas didn't mind and they didn't have a future, Dean wanted this, all of this, now. He dug his fingers tighter into Cas' back to counteract the pinpricks of fear that crept into every nerve-ending at the blinding need to not have just sex but more. Not just a quick fuck against a wall. More.

Cas seemed to have different ideas. He pushed against Dean, flipping their positions on the couch in an awkward tangle of limbs that had Dean's head knocking against the window and Cas hitting his knee with a muted sound of pain. Cas kissed him rough, not gentle, pushy, demanding, ignoring Dean's hands. For a while, Dean let Cas continue, overwhelmed by the feelings, by the blood rushing south at a frightening speed, by the overpowering smell of skin and clean laundry and soap, by the friction and Cas' urgency.

It was when Dean tried to get his hands underneath the waistband of Cas' jeans that Cas jerked forward with a growl, brought his mouth back to Dean's lips for a kiss that was all bruising pressure and the sharp sting of teeth. Sharp enough to make Dean taste his own blood, shuddering against the feel of Cas licking where the blood welled. The show of dominance should have been a turn on, but something was wrong, something was very much not going the way it should.

The pain brought some measure of clarity and Dean used his height and weight advantage to flip and pin Cas against the couch.

"Cas, c'mon," Dean whispered against Cas' ear in between heavy breaths. He felt Cas shudder against him. "What the hell are you doing?"

For long seconds, all Dean could hear was Cas panting in the semi-darkness. Cas' breath shuddered over Dean's neck, making him clench his hands against the need to tear at Cas' clothes. "Too loud." The answer was almost drowned by Dean's own heavy breathing. "Too much. I thought I could drown it out, but it doesn't stop."

The self-assured Cas from earlier was suddenly hidden, still there somewhere, Dean was sure, but pushed in the background by the part of Cas that was… not coping.

"What — "

"There's no more boundary." Cas dropped his temple against the couch, folded his arms tightly around his midsection in a gesture that screamed defence. "I am... I am this."

Dean waited for a moment for his breathing to return to normal and to fight the urge to shove Cas' hands back down to his pants. This was important. This was the inevitable freak-out which Dean had been waiting for since Cas had admitted what it felt like to be human in a human body. "Do you have any idea how fucking glad I am about that?"

Cas' gaze snapped up. Dean looked and saw — fuck. Exactly what he'd hoped he _wouldn't_ see. All that bravado. All of it was false. Cas was just as freaked out as Dean had been earlier but Cas just barged on anyway. Kept going like there was no tomorrow (just today, tomorrow, and then the end, three days to Armageddon), no matter how much he was falling apart at the seams. Tried to drown noise with noise. Pain with pain. Fear with boldness.

It was all too familiar.

"Cas, you really suck at finding role-models for coping mechanisms, you know that?"

A blend of confusion and guilt flashed over Cas' face. "I don't know what — "

"I'm not going to write you an essay, idiot," Dean said, holding Cas' gaze, unrelenting. "So pay attention." Dean stretched out his hand. "Pay attention to this." He reached for Cas' hand, turning it to bare his wrist. Dean pressed his lips against the pulse-point. "And this." Dean raised his head to give Cas a smile he hoped would project reassurance.

Cas' eyes flickered and, for a moment of heart-stopping dread, Dean wondered what he'd gotten himself into. Cas was new to the whole being human thing, and even though he'd thrown himself head-first into the fray earlier, this was different. If there was no more shield protecting him from the rawness of human emotion, no more dampener between sound and smell and sensation, if he felt every touch like an electric shock and every sound like an explosion, then Dean was treading dangerous ground here.

Cas' gaze was open, shadowed around the edges by panic, but trusting, so that Dean had to try to somehow make this right, to make a wordless point. To give something to Cas, even if he had no idea exactly what it was Cas needed. Touch to ground him, someone to connect mind to body and quiet the implosion of sensation into the hollows grace had left behind?

If so, he could do that. He would do it for Cas even if he hadn't wanted it for himself.

Dean swallowed. He was going to do this and do it right. He kept hold of Cas' wrist and circled his thumb over the skin there, feeling the pulse thrum underneath. Moved his thumb farther, toward Cas' palm, tracing the ball of his hand, followed Cas' lifeline from the base of his thumb to his index finger. From below index finger to pinkie, over slim digits to the pads of the fingers. Cas was tense, energy thrumming outward and washing up against Dean's skin. Dean heard him breathe, haltingly, as though trying to keep something in that was waiting just below the surface.

Slowly, Dean curled his hand around Cas' and lifted it to his face. Pressed a kiss to the centre of Cas' palm, his tongue darting out for just the smallest of tastes. Cas sucked in a sharp breath, fingers twitching involuntarily. Dean smelled and tasted salt and underneath something that was as human as it was alien. He glided his lips to Cas' thumb, following the tapered line to a wider knuckle, then pressed a kiss to the pad of Cas' thumb. He repeated the movement with the other fingers, Cas' skin rough against Dean's lips, until Cas' breath came laboured from between clenched teeth, fast. Only then did Dean lick at the pad of the middle finger. Licked a lazy circle with the tip of his tongue before closing his teeth around the soft swell of flesh, biting down with gentle pressure.

Cas jerked, a groan ripping from what sounded like the very bottom of his vocal range. The sound alone had Dean going from half-hard to so hard it hurt.

" _Dean_."

"Shh." Dean released Cas' finger with a soothing kiss to the mistreated skin. "I'm just getting started."

Cas dropped his head back against the couch, his eyes closing for just a moment before they zeroed in on Dean again, the blue of the iris washed out in the firelight, the pupils blown wide open. Open to what Dean was about to do next.

Damned if he knew. Damned if he knew anything about how to make an angel get in touch with his body. He was flying blind on this one. Completely and utterly.

Dean's thoughts derailed as he watched Cas' tongue dart out to wet that lower lip and suddenly, it was no problem anymore. Dean switched off his brain and went on autopilot, remembering what felt good for him and giving it to Cas.

Touch. Hands running over the fabric of the sweatshirt, warming Cas' skin. He inched his right leg over Cas' and slipped it in between Cas' thighs, just barely brushing the erection he felt pushing against the jeans. Cas shuddered again, tensing. Dean moved his right hand higher, brushing against Cas' neck and running it over the stubbled chin and jaw while his other still held Cas' wrist trapped, tracing the sharp jut of his wristbone.

Higher up, over Cas' cheek and to his eyebrows, over his forehead and into his hair, fingernails scraping just lightly before trailing along Cas' scalp to his ear. Dean traced the shell of Cas' ear, fascinated by the effect the simple touch had on Cas – his jaw clenched and moved against Dean's fingertips. Dean inched closer, driven by the need to not just feel more but smell more. He nuzzled Cas' neck, pushing his nose right underneath Cas' ear and breathed in, inhaled the scent he'd caught earlier today. Cas' breath hitched and he did the seemingly impossible — pressed his head back into the couch, while he pressed the rest of his body into Dean. Dean moved his head and touched the tip of his tongue against Cas' earlobe, breathing in and tasting at the same time, smelling skin and hair and a sharpness that wasn't entirely human.

Cas unclenched his teeth and gasped when Dean nipped at his earlobe, his whole body jack-knifing and knocking into Dean, sealing Dean's leg tighter against Cas' erection. Cas' went rigid, his whole body coiled tight with tension. He'd stopped breathing. His pulse hammered against Dean's fingertips. Dean pulled back for just a second to watch as Cas began to come undone completely.

There was too much clothing in the way, but once Cas was shirtless, it would be impossible to cover up what they were doing should Bobby or Sam come down the stairs.

Dean reluctantly untangled himself from Cas – or tried to, at least. Cas' hands were on him like a vice, not letting him move an inch.

"Cas," Dean tried. "The door."

Cas closed his eyes, his breath coming in shallow gasps. Dean felt more than saw him move his hand in a gesture that indicated a door closing — and felt the hand stop in mid-movement. Cas went limp as a broken ragdoll against him.

What — oh.

Dean remembered that gesture from the panic room. This was what had been as natural as breathing to Cas before.

No longer. Not without his mojo.

Cas' breathing had gone from shallow to flat. His head dropped back against the couch, eyes squeezed shut, mouth pinched. Desperate frustration was radiating off him in waves and hit Dean like a rush of cold water.

Dean heard what Cas didn't say, but what he carried with him like a second skin: Cas was alone. Frightfully, utterly alone for the first time in over two thousand years. Dean had started touching Cas with the intention of showing him that he could settle into this, that being human didn't have to be a bad thing, but he had no idea how to fix this. Staring at Cas for a few breaths, Dean brought Cas' hand up to his face, pressed a kiss against the knuckles. "I'll get it." It wasn't about a fear of being discovered any longer. Dean didn't want anyone, not even Bobby or Sam, to see Cas in this moment of utter vulnerability.

This time, Cas let him go, no restraining hand holding Dean back. Dean slipped off the couch, acutely missing the warmth where Cas had been pressed against his side. He shut the door to the hallway, shuffled past the piles of books on the floor to the kitchen door, and pulled at the sliding door to close it as well.

The fire was burning low; he already felt the cold from the window creeping into the library.

"Hey," he said over his shoulder, seeing Cas only from the corner of his eye. "I'll put some wood on the fire. How about you lose some of these clothes in the meantime?" It was the lamest line ever, wildly inappropriate for what Cas had just confessed without words, but it was the only thing Dean could come up with.

A huff of breath from Cas was his only answer. Not quite the sound Dean had wanted to hear. He turned around, looked at Cas, his upper body still in the same position Dean'd left him in, but his feet back up on the couch. His eyes were squeezed closed against... what? Oh. Oh. Dean stared at the bare feet with the long toes for a long second before blurting out: "Cas, I don't care, okay? I don't care."

"I do."

Flat out and uncompromising. What could Dean possibly say to that? "It's the end of the world. There's no time for regrets." Apparently that.

Cas opened his eyes, gaze zeroing in on Dean again. Anger, hope, fear, disillusionment, misery — all laid bare, an open menu of regrets that Dean could pick from. The need to help, do something, _anything_ welled from Dean's very essence while Cas stayed distant, suddenly miles away, not willing or not knowing how to accept comfort. They stared at each other for what felt like a small eternity before the light on Cas' face dimmed and Cas said, "Dean, the fire."

Dean shook himself from the stupor. "Right."

He bent down mechanically to fetch more wood and stoked the fire with the iron hook. Ash clouds drifted up lazily only to settle in front of the fireplace. Dean stared at them, lost in thoughts. Cas' plunge into humanity had been long overdue, but the final fall must have been at great speed. Cas appeared shell-shocked, thrown so suddenly into a world where he was no longer protected by his angelic powers or the knowledge that he had family that looked out for him. As a reward he got a world that was too loud, in which everything happened too fast, everything felt too sharp. Cas had tried to counter the feeling of being too high-strung by lunging at it: facing off Meg, martial arts in the freezing cold, trying to fuck Dean. All just ways to release steam, to block out what was there when the night became quiet and he had time to think about it.

The remaining embers glowed brighter when Dean put the dry wood on them; they embraced the fresh fuel and crackled along the bark. Dean shook his head.

Of course Cas would think that fast, rough sex might be a good way to relieve the tension. After all, Dean had spouted that line enough times when Cas was in earshot, and Cas had probably seen it in Dean's mind, too, flashes of one-night stands after brush-with-death hunts, all listless energy and the need to experience sex like a fuck-you to the universe. What Cas hadn't seen, though, was that sex never fixed anything. That a quick and rough fuck felt good for the moment but not long enough. That it didn't stop the thoughts, didn't offer comfort. Not like — like it did when it meant something. When it wasn't borne of anger and adrenaline but of the need to reach out and hold, be one body and one soul against all logic and reason.

Flames began to lick up the tinder-dry logs, making the room brighter, a blaze of warmth coming with them, dry heat on Dean's face.

Heat that stayed with Dean when he rose from his crouch and turned around to find Cas had risen from the couch, stood with his back to Dean, half-in and half-out of the sweatshirt, hands and head stuck for the moment, struggling to remove the offensive piece of clothing. Cas had made a decision. He had never needed words for the really big ones. That, too, killed Dean a little.

Cas still struggled with the sweatshirt, hands tangled up in sleeves. The movements showed Dean that Cas hadn't put on a t-shirt underneath. Just the soft-with-many-washings cotton against his skin. A broad expanse of that skin was visible now, illuminated golden by the firelight and smooth, Dean remembered. Dean returned to Cas's side and rested his hand against Cas' arm to still it. Touched his lips in between Cas' shoulderblades just over his spine with a smile. Tried to project a wordless, _I'm here, I've got you, I'm with you, I'll show you that this is worth being human for_ , with the touch of his hands and mouth.

Cas stopped moving and stepped back, deliberately leaning into the touch, seeking the connection, and that was all the invitation Dean needed. He could do this, Dean realised as he felt Cas breathe. He could be an anchor against the turmoil. In his own, inadequate, completely stupid and physical way, he could offer something to Cas to make this transition easier. To help him feel good instead of bad. Cas shivered against him as Dean moved his hands down his arms, stepping even closer to Dean so that his back touched Dean's chest. JWhispering soft breaths from between his lips against Cas skin, Dean let his hands glide farther, gently mapping the curve of abs, tracing ribs, tracing — lines, no, _scars_. Cas hissed when Dean's fingertips followed a circle of raised skin. Dean jerked back, away from Cas, fighting a surge of nausea. Arousal fled so fast it left him dizzy.

Cas managed get out of the sweatshirt and dropped it on the couch, then stopped moving. He stood still, like a perfect statue an artist had formed with careful, attentive hands.

Dean stared at Cas' naked back and tried to swallow past the lump in his throat. Past the guilt trying to choke him. He pushed away the memory of a boxcutter slicing into Cas' skin and blood on his hands. Cas had never even flinched as Dean mutilated his body.

"Turn around," he whispered, toneless. He wasn't ready to, but he needed to see. Needed to know what else Cas would have to keep as a souvenir from this one-way trip into mortality.

Cas turned slowly, as though it cost him an enormous effort and more strength than he had. He didn't look away, however. He met Dean's eyes, gaze unwavering, and held Dean's until Dean finally dropped his gaze to Cas' chest.

Angry red lines ran over pale skin. The cuts Dean had made to carve the sigil into Cas' chest hadn't healed enough to fade to white yet. They would likely never fade as long as Cas lived. They were raised against smooth skin, permanent as a branding. A living reminder of what Cas had done, what he'd given up for Dead and what Dean had done to him.

"Fuck." Dean ran both hands over his face, up through his hair. "Fuck, Cas, I'm so —"

"Sorry?" Cas inclined his head as though searching for the meaning of the word and coming up empty. He tried to capture Dean's gaze again, but Dean screwed his eyes shut. His old friend guilt was like acid in his gut, eating away at his resolve, knotting his stomach, his heart confined in his chest, trying to beat out of it.

"It's the end of the world," Cas said, throwing Dean's words back at him. "There's no time for regrets."

Dean never knew that absolution would come in his own words and then in no words at all. Because suddenly Cas' hand was on his cheek and Cas' lips were on his and Dean just breathed, breathed in Cas and every single regret on a strangled pant, whispered wordless confessions and pleas; shared gentle touches, each one an apology.

Cas pulled back and put his hand against the scar on Dean's shoulder. Waited until Dean had opened his eyes again. "We all bear our scars, Dean." Cas paused, quirked on side of his mouth up. "Isn't that what it means to be human?"

The weight wasn't off Dean's shoulders with those two sentences, but it was considerably lessened. "That and a lot more," he answered, remembering his promise. He bent forward to touch his lips to Cas' again, a light touch, just close-mouthed kisses that allowed him to get the feel of Cas' lips against his own.

Cas reached behind him to support himself against the couch, then sank down on it, Dean going with him, kneeling between Cas' legs, his thighs brackets of heat against Dean's sides. The simple contact was good, but it wasn't enough, couldn't be enough. They both needed more. Dean rested his hand against Cas cheek and urged his head lower. Dean licked into Cas' mouth, meeting his tongue for just one electric touch, the feel of it like a zing right down to his toes. Cas met him, sleek and focused, soaking up the kisses in near-silence.

This needed to be slow, not rushed. He moved his lips over Cas' chin to his jaw, felt stubble rasp against them, over his neck down to his clavicle, pressing kisses along it. Cas' head dropped back against the couch, while his legs fell open wider, allowing Dean to slide closer. He smiled against Cas' chest when he felt the erection pressing against the jeans Cas was wearing.

For the moment, though, Dean had other ideas. He wound his arms around Cas' back, shifting him closer while Dean sought out a nipple. For a moment, he just looked at it and ignored the scars too close to it. Then he bent down to kiss it. Cas shuddered. Encouraged, Dean darted his tongue out to lick a broad stripe over the dark areola. Underneath his tongue, he felt Cas' nipple harden and Cas bucked upward.

 _"Dean."_

Dean moved his hand toward the waistband of Cas' jeans, teasing at the buttons, coming to rest against the hard outline of Cas' erection. He scraped his fingernail along the length of it as he circled his tongue around Cas' nipple.

Cas' thighs trembled. His hands that had been resting on Dean's sides until now, kneading and stroking, were now in Dean's hair, curling against Dean's scalp, fingernails almost painful against the thin layer of skin. Dean kept going, tasting and teasing Cas' nipple while he curled his hand around the outline of Cas' erection, until Cas wrenched Dean's head away with a growl. He pulled Dean's chin up to look at him.

Cas' eyes were bright and hot, hunger so open and naked on his face that Dean's mouth went dry. Dean curled his fingers a little lower against Cas' crotch, cupping his balls, and watched Cas' eyelashes flutter.

It was easy to get to the zipper. Far too easy to press a kiss to Cas' neck, just underneath the jaw where Cas' pulse beat against his lips. Harder to flip open the button, but Dean didn't care. He peeled open Cas' jeans and reached for the erection inside, pushing against and almost out of cotton boxer briefs. Dean touched two fingers through the opening. Cas gasped through clenched teeth, biting back against a sound of need so desperate Dean's insides clenched.

There suddenly was no more time for finesse, no more time for a perfect slow burn. Cas bent down to meet Dean's lips, hungry, demanding. Dean tunnelled his hand under the shorts to curl his fist around Cas' cock with a twist of his wrist to let his thumb come to rest just over the head. He worked Cas' erection with small, controlled movements until Cas made a sound at the back of this throat that could have been Dean's name or a curse.

Dean sped up the movements of his right hand and moved his left, cradling Cas' balls, feeling them draw up tight. Cas flailed and his hands came to rest on Dean's upper arms, digging in hard enough to leave bruises.

Dean pulled back, needing to see. He kept up the movements of his hands, the angle weird and his wrists protesting, but it didn't matter. None of it mattered when Cas was wide-eyed, the blue of his irises darkening, pupils blown wide, mouth open and lips swollen, a look of abandon on his face, yearning edging into pain.

Syllables came over Cas' lips, a language Dean didn't understand but which settled like a contained nova in Dean's stomach. That didn't matter, either, only the fact that Cas was close, so very close and he _needed_.

Dean pulled back and removed the boxer briefs with a rough jerk. Finally able to see Cas fully, the slim, elegant length of his cock made Dean's own cock twitch. Cas looked at him while Dean returned his hand to Cas' cock. Cas' eyelids fluttered again but he kept his eyes open, kept looking at Dean, and that alone made something wild and feral crawl up in Dean's chest, clamouring to break free. Despite Cas' noise of protest, he removed his hand from Cas' cock and held it up to Cas' mouth.

"Lick," he said, a husked appeal that was too loud in the quiet room.

Fuck, but Cas didn't even hesitate. Opened his lips and licked a broad swath over Dean's palm. Dean fought a groan, his cock twitching but he ignored his own state ruthlessly. Without hesitation, he returned his wet hand to Cas' cock, the slide now easier, the movements faster.

"Pay attention," Dean whispered softly, because Cas was close. Dean held Cas' gaze. Needed to see Cas' eyes when he came. Needed Cas to understand that this was good, that this, too, was what being human meant. That it was more than just anger, confusion and guilt. "Feel."

One more curl of his fingers against Cas' balls, soft and tight in Dean's hand, one more firm twist of his wrist, index and middle finger pressing just underneath the head of Cas' cock, and a choked noise broke from Cas' lips. His whole body twitched, tensed, and went rigid. His eyes darkened, then light flooded them, as a look of pain and wonder crossed his face.

Dean could feel the waves crash against Cas' skin, felt them rush over himself just as Cas spilled wet and warm against his hand. Cas' lips were open, but he was quiet, so quiet through his climax. Just breathing and panting. Panting words. Words that became Dean's name.

He gentled Cas as he came down, stroking his clean hand over Cas' forearm, disturbing the fine, soft hair there. The motion was hypnotic, the smell of smoke and old books, Cas, and sex distinct in the room. For long minutes, he heard only the crackling of the flames in the fireplace and Cas' breathing as it slowly returned to normal.

Dean shifted and was reminded that his own body had needs, too. He wasn't going to need much, and it felt unimportant apart from a wish to not run around with blue balls another day. He wiped his hand on his shirt and reached down to open his belt then felt a hand on his arm – the grip too tight, too strong. Cas pushed his fingers underneath Dean's right sleeve, bunching the soft cotton up, revealing the scar on Dean's shoulder.

Cas didn't say anything, just pulled Dean up on the couch, and pressed his lips against the scar, his hair tickling the side of Dean's neck. He fumbled with Dean's belt and buttons before starting on his zipper. His hand trembled ever so slightly, but Dean felt clearly that it wasn't apprehension, just exhaustion.

Dean was right. He didn't need much. At the first touch of Cas' fingers to his cock, he was bucking up into Cas' grip, breath stuttering, his own hands gripping Cas' arms to ground himself. A few more flicks of Cas' wrist, an open-mouthed kiss against the scar, and Dean was coming with a whole-body shudder, his face buried in Cas' hair.

Eventually, the warm curl of Cas' hand around his dick and the hot breath against his scar became too much and Dean moved, surveying the mess they'd made. His shirt was ruined and Cas' hand was wet with Dean's semen. The sight made an unexpected blush creep up in Dean's cheeks.

He would have suggested a shower, but Cas looked ready to really sleep for the first time since they'd encountered Pestilence and Dean didn't want to deprive him of the much needed rest. "I'll get something to clean up with," he murmured.

When he returned shortly after with a washcloth to wipe Cas down and tuck him back in, Cas caught his hand. He pressed a kiss to Dean's knuckles.

Dean swallowed and let his fingertips rasp along the stubble on Cas' jaw, just under the bruise. Trailed them to Cas's naked shoulder. "You'll get cold," he said, drawing an infinity symbol on Cas' collarbone.

"So will you," Cas replied.

"I'll get a clean shirt." Bobby'd been doing laundry earlier, so Dean knew there still were some shirts in the dryer.

"Wear this in the meantime." Cas handed over the sweatshirt he'd been wearing before.

Dean quirked the corner of his mouth up, lifted the fabric to his face. Inhaled and found it hard to keep his eyes open when the shirt smelled like clean laundry and Cas — a good, familiar, comfortable smell.

Cas' eyes never left him, making Dean feel naked despite the shirt he was putting on. He had to step out from under that gaze, from the way it was breaking him open and making him consider stupid, impossible things. Dean ducked out of the library, busied himself at the dryer for a while, found a shirt for himself and smoothed out wrinkles from the sweatshirt before he collected himself enough to walk back in and throw the shirt at Cas.

"Thank you," Cas said as he caught it. The sincerity in his tone made it clear that he didn't only mean the shirt.

'How do you feel?' was on the very tip of Dean's tongue, but he didn't voice it. It would be a stupid, self-indulgent thing to ask. Besides, he could feel the tension that had been thrumming in Cas earlier was gone, even from where he stood.

Quirking the corner of his mouth up, Dean sat down next to Cas, drawing his feet on the couch. Not in touching distance, though. It wasn't the fact that they'd just had sex which made things weird now. It was not knowing where it had taken Cas. Where it had taken Dean. Mindless physicality would have been one thing, but what they'd done had gone far beyond mindless. It had been the deliberate breaching of a wall Dean had never, ever let down.

"I paid attention," Cas suddenly said, softly. He nudged his feet in Dean's direction.

"Good," was Dean's automatic reply. He was distracted by the length of Cas' toes. So weirdly vulnerable. So human. They had to be cold. Dean moved his feet, too, almost, but not quite touching Cas.

"You helped me with mine," Cas continued, shaking Dean from his contemplation and leaving him to wonder what exactly Cas meant.

"What about yours?" Cas asked, never taking his eyes off Dean. With both of them sitting on the couch, heads resting against the upholstery, legs drawn up, bare feet and sock-clad feet finally touching, Cas' toes were pinpricks of surprising warmth.

Dean stretched his arm in Cas' direction, not quite reaching him. "What do you mean?"

Cas gave him a sleepy half-smile that did nothing to hide the awareness in his eyes. "Have you stopped running from your demons?"

Dean twitched involuntarily, hid his mouth in the crook of his arm and looked outside the window into the darkness beyond. He didn't answer the question. Couldn't, because his demons were still out there as well as in him. He had consented to letting his brother spend the rest of eternity trapped in a cage in hell with the devil. Dean would never be able to stop running once Sam did it. If he ever did, if he ever allowed himself to comprehend the enormity of that choice, he would go insane. Dean didn't, couldn't tell Cas, but he had already decided to stop running when Sam said yes. Stop running forever.

Cas shifted on the couch. A warm touch against the back of his hand had Dean closing his eyes, twisting his hand around to be palm to palm with Cas. He nudged his toes to cover Cas' bare ones more fully, trying to prevent them from getting cold. He should say something. But he was tired. So damn tired of it all to come crashing back on him – on them. Cas didn't need to know his plans. He'd just try to stop him, probably getting himself killed in the process. Ignorance, in this case, meant Cas would stay alive. One day, Cas would understand.

So instead of answering, Dean opened his eyes again, rubbed his toes against Cas' and ran his thumb over the back of Cas' hand, offering a peace that tasted bittersweet as he watched Cas slowly drift to sleep. Dean was left to wonder if he could at least save Cas if he already couldn't save Sam and himself.

 

 

V

 

Bright morning light filtered through the curtains of the library when Dean woke up, intense enough to make him close his eyes again on instinct. He allowed himself a moment to shake the feeling of displacement and took in his surroundings by feel and smell. He was warm. Something covered him and scratched against his chin, something that smelled vaguely dusty but carried a weird smell of home. Something crackled – the fire in the fireplace. The room smelled of old books and hints smoke and… a tendril of coffee-scent. Dean stretched his legs, shifted the blanket that covered him and opened his eyes again – carefully this time to give them time to adjust to the brightness. He turned to his right, searching for Cas — only to find the spot next to him on the couch empty.

A twinge of disappointment settled under his breastbone. He didn't know what he had expected the next morning to be like, but it hadn't been to wake up alone. Then again, maybe he was making a mountain of a molehill. Maybe Cas had just gone to take a leak.

Dean shook his head, threw off the blanket and stood slowly. Something in his spine made a cracking noise when he stretched and, man, he really was past the age of his body suffering these sleeping positions and not complaining in the morning. His ass had fallen asleep. He rubbed it gingerly as he followed the trail of coffee smell to the kitchen.

The door was no longer fully closed as it had been the night before. Dean curled his fingers around it and pushed, creating a scratchy noise as wood scraped against wood.

"Mornin', sleeping beauty," Bobby greeting him without raising his head from the newspaper his was bent over.

"Hey, Bobby," Dean mumbled and stumbled over to the coffee-maker. He poured himself a mugful and realised with a smile that the washed out writing on it said Canonsburg Oktoberfest. He remembered picking it up in that tacky souvenir store there.

"Sleep well?" Bobby asked, still not looking up from the newspaper that covered most of the kitchen table.

"Surprisingly, yeah."

"Kinda uncomfortable position to sleep in."

Dean tensed. "Nah," he answered with a fake smile.

"Couch's a little small for two," Bobby continued and this time, he was definitely not reading the paper anymore, even if he wasn't looking at Dean.

Hands clenched around the mug, Dean shifted so he could look at Bobby. "Is there something you wanna say, Bobby?"

"It's none of my business."

"Damn straight it isn't."

"It's just that it's been a while since I've seen you actually wake up looking rested. Whatever it is you two guys talked about last night," Bobby put the emphasis on talked, making it oh so obvious that that was not what he meant at all, "it must have made an impression on our resident angel."

Dean felt dread running a cold finger up his spine. "What?"

Bobby pointed his chin in the direction of the kitchen window. "Karate Kid's outside again." A small smile flitted over his face. "But this time, the scrawny idjit accepted the gloves I gave him." Bobby huffed and shook his head. "I swear, for all the fact that I never had kids, it sure feels like I've got three on my hands now. Overgrown kids that eat me out of house and home. With attitude problems."

Something inside Dean relaxed and the affection toward Bobby that welled up inside of him was overpowering. "You make good meatloaf." It was the only thing he could come up with and not choke over.

"Eh," Bobby said, waving a dismissive hand and burying his head in the paper again.

And that was enough. They didn't need more.

Dean grabbed a second mug, filled it with the much-too-strong coffee and headed out to where he saw Cas moving gracefully in the morning light, casting long shadows.

 

***

Frost covered the scrapyard. The early morning light was harsh and clear on the rusting cars, filtering through the bare trees, reflecting in broken windscreens and glinting on ice-crystals. It was chilly for mid-October, as though the presence of the devil had made the world colder.

From the porch, Dean didn't see Cas immediately and took solace in the quiet morning sounds of the scrapyard that had become familiar over many falls – the soft groaning of cars giving in to the steady gnawing of rust, leaves rustling in the wind, and the high wail of birds flitting over the yard, trying to find some last insects before the winter. Before the end. He wondered if they sensed something, too. Two more days until the apocalypse.

He was going to miss this place.

Dean shook his head and stepped off the porch. His gaze zeroed in on Cas immediately. Amidst all the junk Bobby had collected, Cas' fluid, graceful movements seemed displaced, otherworldly. It hit Dean again just how much Cas was a being that simply didn't belong here but was now stuck with them. Suddenly, after Van Nuys, Cas was the sole occupant of Jimmy Novak's body, a higher being trapped in mortal flesh and bone. His movements seemed slower than yesterday, calmer somehow, making Dean egotistically wonder if last night had something to do with it.

He watched Cas stumble through a figure and bite back on a curse, restless energy back from where it had hidden. Dean fought a snort. So much for sexual healing. But something had changed.

Cas looked up, saw Dean approach… and smiled at him. Not the blindingly bitter smile the Cas from Zacharias' perverted future had given him, but a warm, intimate one.

Dean looked at the dark hair — that ridiculously soft, thick hair — peeking out from underneath the cap, the crinkles around Cas' eyes, the comfortable acceptance that didn't hide even a trace of awkwardness and, in that moment, he saw the solace Cas offered without words: the ridiculous, wild hope for another outcome to all this that he represented without even knowing it. Dean suddenly wanted to touch Cas, feel Cas' heart beating against his own, soak up that hope and make it his so much it hurt. He even took the first step, but then saw the curtain moving behind the first floor bedroom window and stopped.

Sam.

"Cas, I — "

Cas gave him a half-smile, his eyes shadowed despite the bright morning light. "I know." He reached for the mug of coffee in Dean's right hand and curled both of his gloved hands around it, trapped Dean's hand between the warm ceramic and scratchy wool. "I know."

He caught Dean's gaze, held it for a long time. "Thank you," he said.

Dean frowned. "For what?"

"Coffee." Cas answered. "I don't think anyone has done that for me before."

"There's a lot of things no one has done for you before," Dean said, stroking his thumb over the top of Cas' gloved hand. "We should change that." The lie cloaked as a double-entendre came smooth. Dean knew he barely had any time left to show Cas the things he wanted Cas to see and to experience.

"I'd like that," Cas answered, looking away from Dean and over the scrapyard. "If we can."

 

Finis.


End file.
